Category: Life

I’m narrow-minded? I don’t see you and your wife having an open marriage." To which Fred replied, "Having an open marriage just means that you don’t love your wife enough to commit to her alone." This just apparently struck a big nerve, because Dorkus told Fred to (this is a direct quote) "Fuck off and IDE!" and then left IRC. As far as I’m concerned, to each his own. If Dorkus and his wife want an open marriage, they should go to it. But if Dorkus is going to brag all over the place about how cool he is because his wife lets him fuck whomever he wants, he’s got to be prepared for people who think it’s bullshit to tell him it’s bullshit. The funniest thing is that Fred only said it to annoy Dorkus; he didn’t expect to hit that nerve. I suspect that either Dorkus or his wife is not as into the whole open marriage thing as they’d like to believe. So I was minding my own business this morning, web-surfing, paying bills, the usual, when Fred directed me to this (link removed) site. I love that the models’ reasons for selling their eggs range "from “to not be dependent on a man,” to “I want to help others.”." Oh, you want to help others? Gosh, I don’tsee you giving your eggs to unfortunate, infertile couples or offering to give the money you’ll be making to charity. I don’t see that anywhere. And just who the Hell is bidding on these eggs? Ron Harris claims to have a valid offer of $42,000. Who out there is saying to themselves "Ooooh, I want a pretty, vapid child!"? Yeah, I know, low blow, but I’ve never seen a model who didn’t strike me as all surface, no substance. I mean, did you see Fair Game, for crying out loud? And Cindy Crawford’s supposed to be the talented model. Anyway, back to the models selling their eggs. The quote that just got all over me* is: Harris, who has three children from four marriages, said its natural for parents to want attractive children. He said that each time his wife was pregnant he hoped for a cute baby. On the third try, he said, he got one. “My third child is beautiful,” he said, adding that he didn’t favor that child over the others. I wonder how the other two feel about that. I know that if my father told the world "Yeah, I hoped for cute children. My daughter Debbie is good-looking. The others could scare paint off a wall, though", I’d probably be on the phone, asking the Menendez Brothers for advice (which, obviously, I wouldn’t take, since they got caught and all). Okay, rant over. Y’all have a good night, now! (*"got all over me" is a phrase i picked up from fred. whether it’s a southern phrase or a fred original, i’m not sure. it means "really pissed me off.") —–]]>

Yesterday was the Spud’s birthday. She turned 11! When I hugged her before she left for school, I mock-sobbed and said "My babyyyyyyyyyyy’s growing up!". She laughed.

We took her out to eat at Landry’s Seafood Restaurant, in Huntsville, for dinner. For her last two birthdays, she had sleepover birthday parties, and I’ve always ended up pissed as Hell because when you get a bunch of 10 year-old (or 9 year-old) girls together in a room, they simply will not shut their big mouths and go to sleep. Last year, Fred spent the night in a hotel so he wouldn’t have to be around for the big event. At 2 am, the girls (who were sleeping in the basement) were still going at it, chattering and shrieking and laughing. I stood at the top of the stairs and bellowed "You girls had better be quiet, or I’m going to start calling your parents!" This, you understand, was after telling them every five minutes for the previous three hours to keep it down.

Don’t get me wrong; I didn’t care if they went to sleep. Hell, as far as I was concerned, they could stay up all night. We have an alarm system, and there was no way they were going to be sneaking outside or anything. I just wanted to be able to go to sleep myself, and even through the earplugs I wore I could hear their chatterings and shriekings and laughing.

So last year at 2 am, after I yelled that I was going to start calling parents if the girls didn’t start being quiet, I picked up the phone and dialed Fred at his hotel. What I didn’t realize until the next morning is, they thought I was calling their parents! I should have thought of it hours before.

Anyway, we went to Landry’s last night for dinner, which kind of sucked. We all love seafood, but the Landry’s dishes leave something to be desired, though their oysters are damn good. Kind of hard to screw up raw oysters, I’m guessing.

After Landry’s, we went home and did the cake thing, then she opened her presents. May I say that the child gets an UNGODLY amount of presents. My parents go nuts buying her presents, as does her father, and Fred and I kind of do too, I guess. I was lucky if I got a third of what she gets, when I was her age. She has too much damn stuff, too. There’s not enough space in her room for all the toys she has, and she rarely plays with any of it. She doesn’t appreciate all the stuff she has, either, not a bit of it.

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We’re expanding our offices here at work (where I’m updating from today. hi.), and my head is pounding. My office, luckily, is next to the space where they’re using cement nailguns and other noisy tools to put down metal strips. They stapled a sheet of black plastic across the gaping doorway which, you know, really does a heck of a job cutting the noise level. Not. Now someone’s back there hacking up a lung, and it’s not the sort of environment conducive to my working hard.

Actually, I have done some work this morning; I paid about fifteen bills, updated an ultra-ugly excel spreadsheet (which I did not design, thankyouverymuch. my excel spreadsheets are visions of loveliness), listened to Fred and a co-worker discuss what the bloody, gross-looking thing on the back of the toilet is, checked out the bloody, gross-looking thing for myself, and had a breakfast of Raisin Nut Bran. I think the bloody, gross-looking thing is a bloody booger, personally, but the co-worker prefers to think it’s from the feces family. None of us have bothered to wipe it off, you’ll note. (It’s not on the seat, it’s on the side of the tank by the flushing handle) All I know is that I was not responsible for it’s existence.

 

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Okay, kiddies, it’s way past my bedtime, so tonight it’s gonna be short and sweet.

It was a busier day at work than I expected. Usually Mondays are pretty slow, and I sit around and surf for most of the day. Today, though, I had to get a "new hire" kit together, because we (can you guess?) hired someone new. It was a matter of getting together all the paperwork, and then realizing we were low on all the forms (W-4, I-9, A-4), and panicking, trying to remember where I’d gotten them in the first place (hey, gimme a break, it was 3 years ago), and searching the web for forms I could download and print out. You know, the usual thrills.

Fred went to Best Buy yesterday (Best Buy is to Fred what Wal-Mart is to me), and drooled over the computers. He came thisclose to buying two new computers, and then chickened out and came home. He told me about the computers he’d seen "They have blahblahblah hard drives, and blahblahblah processors, and blahblahblah!" he said excitedly.

"Computer fast?" I grunted, trying to translate it into my kind of terms,

"Yes!" he practically shrieked, masking his impatience with my dumbassness. "VERY fast!"

"Take credit card. Buy computer. Big monitor. Go fast. Go buy. Now."

So he left to go back to Best Buy, but by the time he got there, it was closed.

"I guess it’s a sign," he sighed.

"No, if you go tomorrow and they don’t have any, that will be a sign," I informed him.

Today, he went to Best Buy and purchased us two HP blahblahblah computers with blahblahblah and blahblahblah; one for him, one for me.

Me like.

(Updating may be a tad sporadic over the next few days, ’cause I have to back everything up to floppies, which makes my current piece o’ crap computer freeze up at random moments for no foreseeable reason whatsoever. After I do that, I have to hook up the new computer and download programs and blahblahblah. If you email me — and if you haven’t, you damn well should!– and I don’t get right back to you, rest assured that I’ll get back to you as soon as Robynly possible).

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Ya gotta love Sundays. I actually got to sleep in this morning ’til 7, if you can believe it. It was nice to wake up to a light bedroom; usually when I wake up in the morning my bedroom is still completely dark. Anyway, Fred woke me up by crawling into bed with me — we sleep in separate bedrooms — and we lay in bed and talked and, uh, did other things.

So, here’s the pumpkin the spud painted for Halloween:

It’s sitting at the top of our front steps, next to a pot of mostly-dead morning glories. Pretty cute, isn’t it? I think the blood dripping off the teeth is a pretty good touch. My daughter, the artiste.

And while I’m sharing pictures, here’s one of Spanky on my desk this afternoon, peeking out from behind my computer. My desk is a total shitheap, because I’m Robyn and I’m a slob.

Fred went shopping at Best Buy yesterday and purchased a new vacuum cleaner (Hoover WindTunnel), and an under-the-cupboard can opener. He then went to Office Depot and bought a new chair for his desk (Italian leather, horribly expensive, and very nice), and then he went to another store, and bought some new shirts, pants, and Joe Boxer shorts. How’s that for fair? I spend all day at the soccer fields, and he gets to do all kinds of shopping. Hmph.

When I arrived home from the second soccer game yesterday, I was in a horrid mood, which Fred tried to assuage by offering to give me money to buy clothes for myself. I just love that man, have I mentioned that?

After Fred and I were showered and dressed this morning, and after Fred had made the usual Sunday breakfast of pancakes for the spud, we sat and watched the "RE/Max Showcase of Homes" show on TV. Boy, were we drooling over some of them! Why are we looking at homes, for crying out loud; we’ve only been in this house for less than two years!

I spent the rest of the day lazing around, reading, napping, and watching the remake of Psycho. I’ve never seen the original, so I don’t have that to compare it to. I liked it, but it was weird the way everyone sounded like characters from a 1960 movie but there were ’90s touches (like Julianne Moore’s walkman). Vince Vaughn was a perfectly creepy Norman.

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Why we don’t need another cat by Fred My wife is, in fact, right about the fact that we’ve crossed over the line of weirdness by having more than two cats. What she fails to see is the second line of demarcation, the “people who have more than four cats and whose house always smells of feline feces” line. That’s a line I don’t wish to cross. First, we’re far too young to have five cats; hasn’t she noticed that only old single women and lesbians have more than four cats? My wife is obviously not a lesbian, unless she’s been hiding something from me. If she is a lesbian, how come I’ve never been allowed to watch? But I digress. As far as single old women go, I plan neither to divorce nor die in the foreseeable future. Second, studies (I’ve seen them on TV) show that more than five cats exhibit a pack mentality. In fact, just the other night I saw a documentary on TV which showed (possibly in an “America’s Most Wanted”-style re-enactment) a group of angry cats attack a defenseless old woman (see previous paragraph) just for running out of milk and trying to substitute some non-dairy creamer mixed with water! Need I really say more about this point? Finally, Robyn fails to forget the persnickety nature of our existing furballs. Spot, for one, would have diarrhea for at LEAST two weeks, and probably three. Spanky wouldn’t be terribly affected, except that he’d continually be surprised, since he’d most likely forget there was a new cat from day to day. Stimpy would show his displeasure by befouling any spare piece of carpet with his feces (then trying to cover it, and producing some designs reminiscent of the more complex crop circles from a few years ago). Last but not least, there’s Snoopy, who would proceed to defecate and urinate on my bed with reckless abandon, as he does whenever there’s a serious change of lifestyle. Tell me I’m right. Fred Okay, first of all if anyone reading this is going to take offense at the “lesbians or old single women” line, you need to email Fred about it, not me. Besides, I’m fairly sure he’s kidding. Secondly, I still want a kitten, damnit! I. Want. A. Kitten. Damnit. The boys would just have to deal with it. Anyone have any orange tabby kittens to give away? (PS: If you didn’t get the joke in the second paragraph of Fred’s essay let me know, and I’ll clue you in.) I’ve been emailing back and forth with Audrey (who was kind enough to let me have her URL), and I’ve really been enjoying it! We seem to share the same opinions on certain things, and I really like reading her journal. Go read it. Go on, now. I’ll wait here. Wasn’t it great? I just love the tone of her entries; it seems like she writes the way she talks, (though I haven’t talked to her; it’s just a guess) and I look for that in a journal. Bookmark it, now, so you don’t get all frantic when you’re wanting to read some more of it. So today pretty much sucked. I had to get up at 5:45, because the crockpot beef stew recipe I wanted to make for dinner tonight had to cook for 10 to 12 hours. I threw everything in the crockpot and went back to bed, hoping to catch an hour of sleep from the jaws of Hell. This quest was made impossible by order of King Spanky, who insisted upon climbing on top of me and pressing his ice-cold, Tidy Cat-scented paw to my cheek. Repeatedly. That cat has the coldest damn paws I’ve ever had the privilege of feeling on my face. I gave up and rolled out of bed around 8 and took my shower, did some more laundry, ate a quick breakfast of strawberry Pop-Tarts Snack Sticks, and ran out the door with the spud, because she had a soccer game this morning (tournament games are this weekend and next). The game ended with a tied score, which meant there had to be a shoot-out (5 girls from each team line up and take turns trying to kick the ball into the goal; whoever ends the shoot-out with the highest number of goals wins the game. Or something. I wasn’t paying close attention, so I’m pretty much guessing.). The first shootout ended in a tie, which led to the second shootout, which also ended in a tie, and led to the third shootout. The other team won. When the spud got in the truck, I found out (to my horror, might I add), that she had another game at 2:00. Today. Oh, was I peeved. Did I know that I would be spending practically my entire day at the soccer field? Why no, thank you very much, I did not. And it’s all Fred’s fault. How?, you want to know. How can it possibly be the fault of that sweet man who made some very good points in his essay above? Well, I’ll tell you. Listen closely, my friends, and I will tell you. Last night, as I wandered weary into the house, tired from my long day of web-surfing, movie-watching, and grocery-getting, he waylaid me. Would you rather take her to her game tomorrow, or clean the house? he asked. And it was a difficult question for me to answer. It was his turn to take her to her game, but he was offering to clean the house, top to bottom, if I’d take her to her game. I hate sitting in the truck waiting for the spud’s interminable soccer games to end (don’t give me that disapproving look, reader. I can see the whole game from my truck, which I park right next to the soccer field, so shut the Hell up). But more than that, oh yes, eons more than that, I loathe cleaning the house. I hate it with a passion. So he suckered me in. I asked for the terms of the agreement (“You’ll clean the whole house? I don’t have to do anything? You promise?”) and then signed in blood. He was done with his cleaning by 9 am, and I spent hours and hours sitting in my truck, watching incredibly long, incredibly dull (yes, I love the spud with all my heart, but watching never-ending soccer games just makes me want to gouge my eyes out. the cuteness of seeing those little 10- and 11-year olds running around has long worn off) soccer games. He’s the devil, I tell you! To his credit, he did start cleaning at 5:45. But still. So after the second soccer game (they lost), I came home, lounged around for half an hour or so, and finished making dinner (which I thought was good but got 2 thumbs down from Princess Fred). An hour or so after dinner, Fred’s dad and stepmom came over to watch “The Blair Witch Project” with us. I saw it in the theater, and yesterday when he got home with the new dvd, Fred watched the ending, but neither Jim nor Jean had seen any of it. They weren’t impressed. I still like it. I think Fred liked it. After they left, I changed back into my crappy, faded old t-shirt and took my bra off. ]]>

I stopped at Wal-Mart on my way into work this morning (because my failing to visit Wal-Mart at least twice a week is the first sign of the apocalypse) to purchase gummie savers and happened upon Pop Goes the Weasel by James Patterson. Which I purchased. Because the second sign of the apocalypse would be my failing to make a spur-of-the-moment book purchase when I have, easily, fourty books and twenty magazines at home that need reading.

So as I was leaving, I happened to glance over as I went through the little entryway, where people post "missing" and "free kittens to a good home" signs, and saw a sign advertising kittens for $5 each. The sign included a picture of the kittens, and ohhhhhhhhhhh were they cute. Boy, do I want another kitten something awful. That cruel bastard I married won’t let me get one, though. I want an orange tabby soooo bad; my kitten Charlie when I was 7 was an orange tabby, and a bigger momma’s boy you’ve never seen. Fred just shakes his head and says "We have 4 cats! We don’t need a fifth!" But as I see it, more than 2 cats makes you a weird cat person. Am I wrong? Is it three, or some incredible number like ten? Where is the "weird cat people" line drawn? I suspect we’ve already crossed it. For crying out loud, what difference is ONE more cat going to make? One wittle bitty kitten? Fred should let me get a kitten, don’t you think?

I was sitting at my desk this afternoon, about to eat lunch, when a crazy thought popped into my head. "I haven’t read Pamie in a while. I wonder what she’s been up to?" So I clicked on over to Squishy and began reading.

I went to see "American Beauty" this afternoon, Friday being my "skulk out of work early" day. For the most part, I agree with Patrick‘s assessment of the movie (he’s got a longer review somewhere, but I’m too lazy to look for it). I don’t resent the time or the money spent on this movie, though, mostly because now I’ll know what everyone’s talking about when they discuss this scene or that. I found Kevin Spacey’s character unequivocally pathetic, in the way that I find every older man who is "drawn" to a girl half his age pathetic and just plain lame.

And that’s all I have to say ’bout that.

After the movie, I had to get groceries — for the first time in 3 months, poor me! — and by the time I got home it was close to 5:00. I put the groceries away, chatted with Fred a while, and then called in the Domino’s pizza order.

So what are my plans for the evening? Web surfing and laundry.

Don’t pass out from the excitement, y’all 🙂

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So, the spud got her report card. She got a "D" in Social Studies! A "D"! She’s always gotten pretty good grades, so this would have come as a surprise to us, except we’d noticed that, on the homework and tests her teacher sent home, she wasn’t doing very well. We decided, Fred and I, that the solution was to make her sit down with her history book when she gets home from school, and study for half an hour. Is that unreasonable? We didn’t think so.

We sat the spud down at the kitchen table and informed her of the new rule, whereupon she promptly burst into tears. "It’s not a punishment," we pointed out. "The grade just has to come up." Undaunted, she continued crying. Fred tried again. "We’re notmad at you or anything. We just think you need to learn how to study right." Still she cried. I had to turn my head and bite my lip, because she’s so damn cute when she cries, and I didn’t think she’d care to look up and see me grinning like a goon at her. Fred and I retreated to another room.

"Well, she took that well," I commented.

Fred and I dropped the spud off at soccer practice tonight, and drove around looking at more houses. The problem is, in Madison all the subdivisions offer houses on tiny plots of land. Personally, I’d like to buy 15 acres and plop a big-ass house down in the middle. We talked last night about finding a piece of land and spending the next few years paying it off, then eventually building a house. We both like his Dad and Jean’s house a lot. They designed their house themselves, and you just can’t beat the size, or the layout. But would it be weird to own a house with the exact layout of his Dad’s?

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Today, as I mentioned yesterday I was going to, I called in sick. Ah, it was so nice. I slept in until about 6:40, watched "The Bold and the Beautiful" from Monday and Tuesday, and the "Real World" episode I taped last night, sat around, read, puttered around the house. Did some dishes. Took a nap (because, of course, no day off is complete without a nap). Harassed the kitties (why must they hate it so when I play with their toes?). Just an all-around relaxing day.

Okay, since I did nothing but sit about on my lazy ass today (I didn’t even make my bed!), I’m going to fill out the rest of this entry by answering Chuck‘s survey. Ya gotta love the Chuck.

1. The world is made up of two kinds of people: those who like Neil Diamond, and those who don’t. What kind of person are you?: I like him. Don’t look at me like that!

2. Have you ever had sex in a car?: Nope.

3. Beer or Michelob?: Michelob Light; it tastes the least like beer, and is therefore the only kind of beer I can stomach.

4. Michelob or Lisa Loeb?: Lisa, I guess. I’ve listened to Lisa more recently than I’ve drank Michelob, if that tells you anything.

5. What was your happiest moment?: When I drove from Rhode Island to Alabama to be with Fred. Tied with giving birth to the spud; I was dead certain through the whole pregnancy that she’d be born with twelve toes or missing half a face. She was perfect.

6. Your saddest?: May 10, 1996. Fred and I broke up online, and I thought to myself "I’ll never have anything to look forward to again." We stayed broken up for about 15 hours.

7. Did the Tooth Fairy ever bring you money?: Yes. Originally quarters, and with the last few teeth, she brought $5 bills. She brings the spud $3 or $4 per tooth.

8. What world-changing event occurred on October 29, 1962?: Chuck was born, according to Beth.

9. When did you learn the truth about Santa Claus?: Oh, I was such a loser. I think I was 12 or 13 before a younger cousin informed me of the awful truth.

10. What was your first paying job?: I was a carhop at The Hi-Hat Drive-In III in Lisbon Falls, Maine. Dave Patterson was the owner, and I hope his life is hellish.

11. Mighty Mouse or Underdog?: I can’t possibly choose. I love them equally.

12. What’s your favorite smell? What memory does it evoke?: Vanilla. It evokes the memory of the huge amount of time I’ve spent looking for a perfume that smells just like vanilla – Coty’s Dark Vanilla comes pretty close.

13. Have you ever lied on a resume or job application?: Hell yes.

14. Have you ever played with a Ouija board?: Yes. It said a spirit whose name escapes me was going to kill me. I suspect my friends of plotting against me in the Ouija board escapade of ’83.

15. How much sleep do you need each night? How much do you get?: 8 hours suits me just fine, and I get about 7 hours and 45 minutes. Though lately I’ve required afternoon naps also.

16. Morning wake-up with a clock radio: music, beeping, or music with beeping?: Music, which I can hear even though I wear earplugs at night.

17. Admit it: you know all the songs from Grease, don’t you?: No, but I suspect Fred does.

18. Do you, uh, Yahoo?: No, I infoseek.

19. Call The Booth right now: (760) 733-9969. (Go on, ya big cheapskate, do it. It’ll cost you, what, about a dollar, tops?) Did anyone answer?: It’s busy.

20. You’re MacGyver. You have a stick of gum, two marbles, a skateboard wheel and a bong, and you’re trapped in an elevator with a pregnant woman in labor. Now what?: Chew the gum and watch the pregnant woman deliver, I guess. I’m hopeless in an emergency.

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I’ve been out of sorts all day. I think the shorter days are starting to get to me. I spend all day in a lethargic fog, knowing I should do this or that, file or type, organize or straighten, but I can’t get motivated to do it. Is going off the pill fucking with my hormones? Is it just the usual Fall blahs? I hate that it’s dark when I get up, and dark at 5:30. I love the long days of summer, and I hate the short days of fall and winter. Maybe my body thinks I’m a bear, and it’s time to hibernate. All I wanted to do all day was come home and climb into bed and sleep the day away. I came thisclose to calling in sick, but forced myself to go into work.

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